


Sharp Like My Dreams

by saltandlimes



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Also Canon Hux, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Dirty Dreams, Eamon "Starkiller" Hux, M/M, Masturbation, Parallel Universes, Random Murders, Sad!Leia, not as trippy as these tags make it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7301146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Starkiller explodes before his eyes, Hux feels lost. But then the dreams begin. And in his dreams, he is someone better, crueler, freer. </p><p>Someone from a world unlike his own. Someone he wishes he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp Like My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fedaykin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedaykin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Killing Strangers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6533593) by [fedaykin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedaykin/pseuds/fedaykin). 



> Happy birthday, my darling [@huxplicit](http://huxplicit.tumblr.com/)! I have thoroughly misused your poor Eamon to turn my Sad!Leia Hux to the dark side. 
> 
> You should all go check out my favorite modern AU Hux, Eamon, in [Killing Strangers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6533593/chapters/14947057). It's all his fault.

He's so tired all the time now. It's as though each day has contracted, and suddenly it's all he can do to shove and press and force everything he has to finish into the few hours he has. And there's a dullness to it all, the faint overlay of the greyness that Starkiller's death has left over his vision. The dullness that reminds him his work is gone. That his life is gone. That he couldn't save it.

But he keeps going. 

Because there is nothing else he can do, nothing he can change about it. Because he was not good enough, not strong enough. And his life is in ashes, crumbled at his feet, and all he can feel is the blank of the dark. 

He realizes now that all the simulations he created, all the numbers he ran, all the papers, they meant nothing. All that mattered was Ren, standing on that bridge and choosing not to save Starkiller. Choosing to chase the scavenger instead. 

But that's not quite right. 

No, what mattered is that Ren was doing it in the first place. What mattered was that Hux had sent troopers to get the droid on Jakku, Ren to get the droid on Takodana. That he had not gone himself. And now, ruins all around him, he knows that he was not strong enough.

So it's with the strange muddled softness thick about his ears, his throat, that he falls into bed each night. And it should be hard to fall asleep. He should be up late at night, worrying about his failure. But instead, instead it is hard to wake. And Hux has always been a morning person, a cup of caf singing through his veins and a snap to his step as he stalks through the ship. Now though, now he lies quivering in his blankets each morning, chest full of dreams of the jobs he didn't do himself. 

Until the dreams begin.

_He's wearing white. It's strange, this suit he's wearing. A jacket that is not unlike his greatcoat, trousers. But the shirt buttons up the front, and it's open at his throat. He's curled in a chair, lazy in a way he'd never be aboard the Finalizer._

_But he's not aboard the ship. For a moment Hux wonders how his mind could have imagined this place. It's as strange as the clothing. For there's what appears to be some sort of datapad interface in a corner, a bed, a desk. But everything is just off, the wrong colors, the wrong textures. And the windows look out onto a city like none he has ever seen._

_There's a woman in his dream._

_That's also strange. Hux never dreams of women, if they're not the officers on his ship, his mother. Never. But this one, with her breasts half bared, leaning forward on her chair and taking short gasping breaths, is the kind he would dream up. Rich, she has to be, because even if he doesn't recognize the dress, it's clearly expensive, and staring at him like he has hung the stars, the moon._

_He could wring money for a thousand Starkillers out of this woman._

_And then he's leaning forward, stroking a gloved finger down her cheek. And it's odd, because he wasn't planning on doing that, hadn't thought about it. And his body is almost out of his control, moving closer to her, running a hand up her leg. It's strange, and intimate, and new._

_“You know, Maria, I've really enjoyed getting to know you.” There's a discordant blur in his voice, softer and somehow more deadly. And Hux has always prided himself on his clipped tones, his strident speeches. But this, this is like a viper dripping poison from his lips. And it's good. So good._

_“You make it sound so final, dear.” He laughs, and he's reaching around, pulls something out. It's a blaster of some sort, something Hux doesn't recognize. And for a moment he wonders at it, at what he has dreamed up. But then he's sinking back into the fantasy world, and he feels his skin go hot, prickles running up his spine in a swirling mass._

_“Oh don't worry, you'll be with me always, dear.” And he's swinging a hand up. There's a moment when he sees her eyes go wide, feels a rush through himself that isn't adrenaline, not quite, is something far sweeter. Then there's a pop, a sharp jerk. And the woman slumps forward into Hux's lap._

_He thinks he should be starting away, running from the woman – the corpse – that is leaking fluid onto those pretty white trousers. But he isn't, is running a hand down to caress her hair, to thum at the burns that have flared around the blaster – gun, and what's a gun – wound. And he's propping her up again._

_He's hard._

_So hard, and Hux only just realizes it, realizes that he feels as though a single touch would have him spilling, gasping for air._

He's still half hard when wakes, cock throbbing a little as he fights his way out of his pillows. He's never felt like this before. (Never killed a woman before, not like that, and it was just a dream, sure, but feels so real.) And for a moment, just long enough that he actually thinks about it, he's reaching desperately downward, reaching to cup himself through his soft sleep pants, to tease a finger over the head of his cock. 

But then he tears his hand away. 

It's one thing to jerk off after a particularly vivid dream of a strong torso, narrow hips, a long nose, but this is something else. And he's not... this isn't... 

It was a dream. He's sure of it. 

***

And yet, somehow, Hux can't get the dream out of his mind. He's in the shower, and he sees the woman, slumping over his lap. He's in a meeting with the command staff, and he feels fluid dripping over his pants, draining from the hole in her head. He's stalking the ship, and for a moment he fancies himself in white. 

It's better than being stuffed in wool though. So much better. He almost feels...

Powerful.

And that's not something he's felt since he watched his world dissolve into dust before his eyes. So he sinks into bed each night just a little hopeful. Closes his eyes and doesn't wish to open them to a different sky, to a white jacket and a strange room, at least not entirely. But if he thinks about it for a few lingering moments, well, no one else will know. 

But think as much as he does – and it's a lot, even Hux can admit that – he doesn't have another dream for over a week. And this time, this time when he does, it's different. 

_The first thing he notices is the odd quality of the dream. He's there, himself, inside the dream, walking across a sweeping lawn toward a wide manor, strangely low to the ground. Yet he's also outside himself, watching himself as he stalks down the green grass._

_It's strange, to say the least._

_But, as with all dreams, the sensation quickly becomes normal. And it's really not that odd, almost just the feeling of seeing himself in third person, because he feels the crunch of the gravel under his feel, hears the buzz of some sort of insect. The only thing that is strange is that he does not see out of his eyes, instead watching himself move._

_And Hux is certain he doesn't walk like that._

_There's a grace that he doesn't have in that walk. It's careful, cat-like, and more confident than he has ever been. Awake, he strides, booted feet heavy on the decks as he marks the thunder of his approach. Here, though, he's comfortable in his own skin, predatory._

_And he's walking inside the house, watching himself as he greets people, hears his own voice smile and nod, feels his lips form one pleasantry after another. And they don't know him, yet they think he belongs there, with his sharp suit – white again – and his careful voice. And then, then he's making his way through the house, through another crowed room._

_The knife is solid between his fingers._

_And Hux doesn't know where he got it from, an automatic flick of his wrist that he's sure he couldn't duplicate awake. But here, in this odd dream world, those rules, what he can and cannot do, they seem not to apply. And so he's hold the knife tight to his side, slipping between people in the packed room._

_There's a man in front of him, corpulent, swollen on his own wealth. And Hux feels a rush of disgust, a flush of annoyance as though he knows this man._

_But he doesn't._

_He does know the rush of satisfaction as the knife slides home though. He knows the feel as the man's flesh parts so easily, lets the knife slip inside without a protest. Knows the flush of arousal creeping up his cheeks as he steps away, continues out the door without a backward glance, knife tucked away again._

He know it when he wakes up as well. And he wakes with his hand already clamped around his dick. This time, there is no decision to stark jerking himself off, because he is already started as he wakes. Or at least, he's pressing his hips forward against his arm, little jutting motions that he abandons as quickly as possible. 

But last time, last time he'd been half hard the entire day, a breath of wind enough to set his nerves alight. And so this time, he knows better than to ignore it completely. No, he tightens his fingers, runs his thumb tentatively over the head of his cock. And he's gasping, already so full of it. 

Behind his eyes, he can see himself. And it's not the General that he sees. No, this is the man stalking through that strange manor, confident and sharp. Hux gasps as his fingers tease over the slit, gather precome and spread it with quick little strokes. He watches himself pull the knife out yet again. 

And this time he imagines, or perhaps remembers the look in his eyes. The gleam that could be madness, but isn't, that could be joy but isn't. He's arching up on the bed, hand moving faster now, a sharp twist of his wrist every time he reaches the top of a stroke. And he can see himself, see his own flash out, slam the knife home.

He gasps as he comes, squeezing tight, shoulders curving. And he watches himself watch the man die bright behind his eyelids as pleasure flashes through him. Ass squeezing, cock jerking, fingers tight. And he stalks away, blood on the knife, come on his chest. 

And walking through the ship later, he has just the smallest twinge of guilt, the strangeness of knowing he's jerked off to his own face, to his own hands. (He doesn't worry about how good it felt the knife home, doesn't even think about it.)

But he does stalk through the ship, coat flaring behind him, snap in his step that he hasn't had since Starkiller. And there ideas swirling through his head, new thoughts about how to get to the Resistance, new ideas and ideals. And the first thing he needs is more intelligence. 

The fog is almost gone. The wool is no longer wrapped tight around him, muffling him, caressing him. 

***

They capture a Resistance base, and Hux can feel delight. 

They bring them in prisoners, and Hux feels his cock twitch at the bruises. 

There are sparks now, no stifling blanket wrapping him in soft dullness.

And the ship snaps around him, people going about their duties with a vigor that he hasn't seen since those last few triumphant days on Starkiller. They know that he's back, or maybe not back, but different, better, and he wonders what will happen. If this is how he feels now...

What if he dreams more?

And so he curls up at night, fixes the image of himself in white behind his eyes, hopes to find himself in the dark. 

_This time, this time he's just watching. He can't feel the flutter of wind from the river next to him, the pain in his fist as he slams it into a man's face. It's as though there's a holodrama playing out before him, and he's a starring character._

_And it takes him a few moments to realize who he's punched, dressed as the other man is. But it's more than satisfying to realize that it's Ren, to see the knight fall back from Hux's own fist. And they're talking about something, something he doesn't understand. It's as though he's stepped into a story already fully formed, stepped up to see himself play out some life with Ren that has never really happened, but should, or could._

_There's someone else there now, someone coming up behind them, asking if Ren is alright. Threatening to call the authorities. And Hux sees himself swing around, knife flashing out in the night. And the man falls, knife buried in an eye-socket._

_Hux's breath catches as he watches himself bend, twist the knife as he pulls it free._

_And then Ren is walking towards him, that look on his face that Hux knows means something horrible is about to happen. It's the look that heralds an outburst in front of the Supreme Leader. It's the look that comes before a console is destroyed, too visible now that Ren never wears his helmet – part of my new training, he had told Hux – the look that screams destruction._

_But that's not what happens._

_No, Hux watches as Ren draws too close, then pulls him the rest of the way. And Ren is covering Hux's mouth with his own, Hux wrenching Ren's head back and away to bite hard at his throat. And he watches himself palm Ren's ass, grind them together._

When he wakes, it's with a bitten off moan. Because he couldn't feel Ren's mouth on him in the dream, but he could watch. And he could see his own eyes roll back in pleasure, the curve of his own pale throat. He could watch that strange expression in his own eyes at the first spurt of blood. 

He could watch his hands clutch the knife. 

And it was so good, so clean feeling. It was the rush of power that he felt the moment Starkiller fired, but concentrated seven-fold, a sparking point of desire and control rolled into one. And he wants that. He wants it more than he thinks he's ever wanted anything in his life. And even as he strokes a hand over his hard cock, he thinks of ways he could make it happen. He thinks of how he can be that man in his dreams, of how the Order will be stronger, better for it. 

And Ren will be on his knees. 

***

There is something odd going on. 

Kylo first senses it after Starkiller. Hux has been... dampened somehow. There is something sluggish about his thoughts, about his desires. He is holding them together, keeping the Order moving forward, but it is as though none of it matters to Hux. And that is more strange even than the brokenness Kylo feels. 

And that dullness, well, it mirrors the empty hole in Kylo's chest. It's a blankness begging to be filled, and Kylo is only surprised to find it in Hux as well. It's as though something has been ripped away from both of them, leaving them shattered remnants of the people they should be. 

And Kylo can't put himself back together. 

But Hux seems to gathering those pieces up, rearranging them. And Kylo wants more of the man who is being built out of those ashes. 

There's a smirk when prisoners are brought aboard, visceral, needing, dagger-edge glint in Hux's eyes. And a lick of lips. A shudder of shoulders. 

But then the General, impassive and cold, is sliding back into place, and Kylo thinks he might have imagined whatever was lurking behind Hux's impassive face. Thinks that until a meeting, him stuffed alone into a conference room with Hux. 

“I need to take the shuttle. It's essential to my continued training.” It's simple. Hux is supposed to facilitate that training. 

“Then you'll just have to go through the proper channels like everyone else, Ren. I don't know why this has to be complicated.” And the exasperation is clear in Hux's voice, the twist of his mouth, but there's fire in his eyes, and Kylo wonder what will happen if he pushes harder. 

“I could just take it. This is my ship after all.” And there it is, there is that strange knife-sharp gleam he saw when they captured those Resistance members. But before he can keep going, see what will appear, the door to the conference room bangs open. 

And there's a stormtrooper stepping inside, helmet held under one arm, starting back when he sees his two commanders standing toe to toe, clearly arguing. But before he can slink out, something happens. 

It's almost as though time slows, everything turning crystal clear as Kylo watches. Hux turns, and that light in his eyes flares. His mouth twists, disgust and annoyance stronger than ever. And then his hand is swinging up, sure and swift. 

The stormtrooper's body makes a muffled thump as it hits the ground. 

There's blood spreading out on the deck from a single shot to the throat. A horrible gurgle. A death rattle. And Hux turns back to him, breathing hard, pupils dilated. 

“You will follow proper channel when you want a shuttle, Ren.” And he steps over the body on his way out, kicking it lightly on his way out. 

Kylo stands there for long moments. 

And he's not sure what's tingling over his skin, arousal or fear. But he thinks he likes the combination. 

He makes sure he calls for a cleaning droid before he leaves. 

***

He doesn't remember the dreams until he finishes investigating the Resistance prisoners. And Hux, like always, is standing at the door, waiting for him to report what he's learned. But this time, when Kylo tells him what he's wrung from the man's mind, Hux steps inside the room.

He's looking down at the gasping man, distaste warping that lovely mouth. 

“Do you really think you can win?” His voice drips poison, soft and sweet in a way Kylo has never heard it before. “Were you really that stupid? You have seen our power. I destroyed an entire system. Ren can bend the universe to his will.” The Resistance prisoner makes a choked sound, and it's only then that Kylo notices that Hux has a hand wrapped tight around his throat. And Hux laughs. 

“Well it doesn't really matter, does it? You won't be around to see us win.” And there's a flash of durasteel, a knife appearing from somewhere. Then there's that horrible wet sound as a throat is cut, the splatter splash of arterial spray. And when Hux turns back to him, he's spatter in blood, face pained with it, bright hair dulled by a deeper red. 

And Kylo remembers. 

He remembers the odd dreams he's had, dreams of stalking through a city, tearing people apart with his hands, with blades that sit against his palms like they are at home. And of Hux, near him. Of Hux laughing, wild and strange, as he curls next to Kylo. Of Hux in white. 

Of Hux with a crazed flicker in his eyes, who stands before Kylo now, more real than any dream. And there's something too familiar in how he walks toward Kylo, in the rush of arousal that flares through Kylo's spine as Hux gets closer than he has any right to be. 

He's dreamed of this Hux. And now, real, before him, Kylo wants. He wants so badly that his breath comes in little gasps. This is what they have been missing. Missing this is what led to Starkiller's fall, to that automaton who walked the ships for weeks afterward. Hux was not the man then that he is now. And if he had been, none of that horror would have happened. 

No, it will never happen now. 

Because they have learned who Hux is supposed to be. 

Learned from dreams, and Kylo can catch the memory of them in Hux's mind as Hux presses a bloody glove to his shoulder, forces him to kneel on the floor of the interrogation room. And he goes willingly. Hux's trousers are stretched tight in front of Kylo's face, and he mouths at the bulge, wet on Hux's uniform. And Hux moans, puts a hand against the wall behind Kylo. 

“Did you like that, Ren? Did you like seeing someone else do the dirty work for once?” And Kylo can't respond. Instead he pulls at Hux's trousers. It's as though he's loosing his mind in the blind rush of arousal that's flooding through him, at the smell of blood on Hux's skin. And then Hux forces a hand through his hair, yanks him backward away from that beautiful cock he's finally gotten free. 

“You want to suck me, Ren? Did it turn you on when I killed that Resistance fighter. Do you like that, do you like my cock?” And Kylo can't think, just wants back at Hux, wants to wrap himself in that feeling, in the newness, in this man that he has found after the facade of propriety was scrubbed away. And he makes some sort of noise, a whimper in his throat, a purr. Hux laughs, wild, warm, not the cold snicker of before. And he's letting loose on Kylo's hair, and finally, finally Kylo can get his lips over the head of Hux's cock. 

He sucks hard, wants to lick the smell, the feel of Hux as deep inside himself as he can. And Hux makes a murmur of satisfaction as Kylo stretches his lips wide, dips his head down. Then he's starting up a rhythm. And he think of touching himself, of how his cock aches in his leggings, but he doesn't think he can keep this up at the same time. In any case, he's got one hand wrapped around Hux's dick, the other pawing at Hux's ass, and he doesn't thing he could bring himself to move either, even if Hux begged him. Because it's so sweet, so good, and Hux is panting. 

“Finally found something that fucking mouth is good for besides complaining, haven't we?” Kylo groans at the harsh gasp, at the sharp jerks of Hux's hips. “You should just suck me off instead of arguing with me in the future, Kylo. I might let you watch something like this again, might let you get fucked with blood on my skin.” 

Hux is breathless now, slamming his hips forward into Kylo's throat. And Kylo can't follow the rhythm, can only sit there and let Hux fuck his mouth, use him, fill him up. And when Hux groans, hand clenching painfully hard in Kylo's hair, come sliding down Kylo's throat, it's the most incredible feeling, the most alive Kylo has been since the bridge, since that horrible moment. 

And since he was the man he is in his dreams.

***

It's security footage from one of the Resistance's few remaining outposts. 

Leia watches it, hands clenched tight around the datapad. There's a crash, the shatter of light as a door bursts inward. Then there's a spray of blaster fire, her troops trying desperately to protect the datacore they've been tasked with maintaining, the remnants of the Tarkin Initiative they cannot let the Order get its hands on. 

But they fall in the face of a whirling blade, a man dancing through them with a kinfe and blaster. And when the room quiets, only two people are standing. 

Leia recognizes the bright hair of her First Order counterpart, the hollow features she has seen through so many replays of the First Order's destruction of the Hosnian system. But the eyes, those she doesn't recognize. In that speech on Starkiller base, there is sorrow. There was horror as General Hux watches the weapon he had designed fire.

It's gone now.

No, now those eyes blaze with joy, with a strange pale fire. And he licks his lips as he turns towards her son. 

For that is the other man. And Leia leans closer to the datapad as she sees him face the General. And for a moment, all she can think of is that this is her son, that she knows what his face looks like as an adult. But then she sees his expression. And she knows he is lost to her. Not because that fire is mirrored in his own expression. Oh, no, not that. 

No, because he looks at the General, with his bloody face and parted lips, and Kylo Ren smiles as though the other man has hung the stars, not destroyed them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [@the-garbage-chute](http://the-garbage-chute.tumblr.com/) for telling me this wasn't completely off the wall and plotting with me.


End file.
